


On The Way Out

by ReoPlusOne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReoPlusOne/pseuds/ReoPlusOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur won't make it without Alfred's help; this, they both know.  USUK implied, World War II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Way Out

“Last time you wouldn’t have come back if it weren’t for me,” America didn’t mean for that to come off as cocky as it did, but the look on Arthur’s face told him exactly how it was received.  


“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur practically chomped on his teacup, “If the situation with the antichrist himself gets too serious I can always just uproot my island and go somewhere else.  Maybe off the coast of Florida, you know I’ve always wanted to live somewhere warm — safely out of harm’s way.”

“It would definitely make visiting you a lot easier,” America deflected his words; he couldn’t have survived so long knowing the miserable little island nation without some verbal antivenom.

It wasn’t England but Arthur who stared out the window with uncharacteristic calm.  He was an old sailor, a familiar friend to the sea, but his relationship with the sky-blue waves outside was rockier than the one he shared with France.  When the last war came it was Arthur, just Arthur, who had to kneel by Francis’ side in that rotten rat-infested infirmary and whisper to him that the end was coming.

His leg had been amputated due to the gangrene.  Two weeks passed without it even beginning to bud anew, and Arthur watched a hooded figure standing outside of his tent every night.  If it was that bad for him, Francis was well and truly doomed.

“We thought the world would end in the year 1000.” He murmured, and Alfred forgot to roll his eyes.  “France and I, we waited for it, you know? And when it didn’t come,” His tea bubbled up a little as he chuckled into it, “When it didn’t come we were so grateful.”

“You’re seriously old, you know.”

“I know,” Arthur said with no retaliation — Alfred noticed the bags under his eyes, the little drops of blood that dripped down the inside of his cup and swirled into the earl grey.  “They say, when 2000 comes around, it might be an apocalypse too.”

“Yeah, but you don’t believe that do you? That’s stupid.”

“I hope it comes early,” And England gave a wistful sigh like he was wishing on a star, America stared him down.  Even if the apocalypse did come, he would be just as useless as he would be when — and not if — Herr Hitler began the next war.  “I hope it comes tomorrow, actually.  It’ll take the apocalypse to get any aid from you, after all.” There were some things Arthur could say that Alfred had no antivenom for.

A year and a half.  For a year and a half America had known the hell of the Great War — and that was all it took to keep him from blaming England for saying things like that.  He knew what it was to be desperate, to know that you would have done anything to keep the world from witnessing such a thing again but there was nothing to be done.

But his people had grown accustomed to the role of the passive bystander, and convincing them to give that up would be a Herculean task all by itself.  Forget cleaning stables, the American people would sooner die than enter a war that wasn’t wholly theirs — and as soon as they gave in (and they _would_ ), the task of fighting the war would begin.    


But that was in the distant future.

So Arthur left to fight another Great War.  Alfred waved goodbye, turned his back and clasped his hands to pray for an apocalypse.


End file.
